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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28439988">Buried</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/insistentbass/pseuds/insistentbass'>insistentbass</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Sherlock (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Buried Alive, Character death maybe? You decide!, Claustrophobia, Feelings, Feelings Realization, First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, Hand Jobs, M/M, Major Character Injury, Masturbation, No Plot/Plotless, Post-Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem, References to Drugs, Sad, Smut, Temporary Character Death, Trapped, Voyeurism, trigger warning - claustrophobia</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 21:09:06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>7,300</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28439988</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/insistentbass/pseuds/insistentbass</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“Are we –“ John begins, swallowing the instant panic rising in his stomach.<br/>“Buried alive,” Sherlock finishes, keeping his tone steady. “A little bit, yes”</p><p> </p><p>**Warning for possible character death - cliff hanger left to the reader to decide**</p><p>This now has a Chapter 2 👀</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Sherlock Holmes/John Watson</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>39</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>95</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Buried</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>All I can do is apologise for this. It's just sad really. The ending is abrupt, however it is open ended. I may write a chapter 2 but your head canon can do whatever it pleases :)</p><p>I've had this plot bunny bouncing around for a very long time, so decided to go with something short and...painful, I guess? A little break from the Festive Flings series while I try to wrap my head around the terribleness of the world at the moment. Fight fire with fire, they say.</p><p>Enjoy! </p><p>B x</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p> </p><p>He’s dead. It’s the first thing that blurs into John’s head as consciousness restarts his senses. Either his eyes aren’t open properly or he’s surrounded in complete darkness, a black so deep he can’t tell if it’s real or not. The air is stale, prickling at his nostrils as if he’s somewhere that hasn’t seen the light of day for a very long time.</p><p>“You’re okay” Comes a reassuring voice, low and deep.</p><p>Sherlock. Mercifully, John’s not alone in this hellscape, suddenly aware of the body lying next to him, must only be centimetres from his side. Wherever they are it’s not good and they’re definitely not okay, that much John can tell, as he stretches his arm out to the right and feels a solid barrier stopping him. He immediately presses up, reaching in front of his face from the flat of his back, and finds a similar rough of wood in his way, just before his elbow can lock.</p><p>“Are we –“ John begins, swallowing the instant panic rising in his stomach.</p><p>“Buried alive,” Sherlock finishes, keeping his tone steady. “A little bit, yes”</p><p>Perfect. What a brilliant way to be spending a Saturday evening, confronting every possible nightmarish fear in the tiny space of a makeshift coffin. John reaches up again just to double check and yeah, they’re in a bloody box. Hopes raised momentarily, he pats himself down, anticipating the feel of a phone. Except his jacket isn’t on his shoulders anymore, and the spare burner he’s been keeping in his trouser pocket isn’t there.</p><p>“I don’t have mine, either” Sherlock confirms, words bouncing back off the dampening wood.</p><p>“Excellent” John tries to breathe, catch his pulse before it swims out of control in the little space around them.</p><p>“I managed to text Lestrade before they knocked us out,” Sherlock shifts next to him, groaning softly with the movement. “But I’ve no idea if it sent”</p><p>They’d been so close to leaving the warehouse unseen. Mere steps away from the exit before the security brute had turned back and caught them pressed against the concrete wall. John can’t quite remember what happened after that, the thrum of pain on his forehead carrying the imprint of a boot, no doubt. An undertow of dread begins to creep through John’s veins, the very real and immediate danger they’re in becoming painfully apparent.</p><p>“I take it there’s no way out?” John ventures, still clinging to the chance of a miracle.</p><p>“None” The man next to him confirms, the single syllable punctuated with a thin breath.</p><p>It’s only then that John hears the shallow <em>inhale exhale</em> of Sherlock’s lungs. Every bit of his own fear is suddenly trivial, as he crawls his fingers out to one side until he reaches Sherlock’s bare arm. The skin there is wet, and tacky, the residue thick between John’s fingertips as he rolls them together.</p><p>“You’re hurt,” He starts, turning over onto his side in the small square of space he has available. “Where?”</p><p>Sherlock takes another stuttering breath through his nose, and John uses the sound of it to locate his position in the smothering darkness. He must be on his back too, also without his coat, John discovers, as he carefully moves his hand blindly along Sherlock’s bicep.</p><p>“My right side” Sherlock finally replies, whispered between them. “Under my rib. Small blade, I think”</p><p>The consuming anxiety prickling the hairs on John’s arms is only eclipsed by his need to locate and apply pressure to Sherlock’s wound. Gently he follows the line of Sherlock’s forearm to the bone of his wrist and eventually his fingers, pressed there against the puncture in his chest. He tries not to touch it too much, can already tell by the minute shake of Sherlock’s hand that it’s very not good.</p><p>“Okay,” John says, the slight edge to his voice betraying the lie in his words. “You’ll be fine, hang on. Let me just –“</p><p>Hurriedly John turns onto his back again, struggles in the lack of light and space to take his own shirt off. Eventually he manages, bundling it into a tight ball before turning back over to Sherlock again. Not ideal but it’ll do, will at least be more effective than the flat of Sherlock’s weakening palm.</p><p>“Move your hand, I’ve got you”</p><p>As soon as Sherlock relents, John feels blood ooze from the wound again, fresh and warm on his fingertips as he presses cotton to it. It’s deeper than he would have imagined, given Sherlock’s ability to still speak coherently. The pain from it should be enough to steal away his consciousness. Yet the man is awake, breathing rhythmically through his nose and mouth as if he’s done this before. Which of course, he has, more times than John is probably aware of. He bites his own lip and blinks those thoughts away, concentrates instead on applying an even pressure against Sherlock’s ribs.</p><p>There’s no use in lying. They’re trapped, definitely a few feet underground John registers finally, the lack of sound a bit of a giveaway. Their only real hope is the slim chance that Sherlock’s fingers were quick enough on his keyboard and the signal was strong enough to penetrate the warehouse walls. They’ll run out of air soon, too. He’s no expert but the tightness in his own chest predicts they have maybe a couple of hours, depending on how long they’ve already been here for. He doesn’t ask for clarification on that, the shallowness of the breaths coming from Sherlock tell him enough. The man must be in agony, the stab wound likely one of many injuries.</p><p>“Not exactly the dramatic ending I had in mind” John tries for sarcasm, eyes trying to seek out Sherlock’s own in the vacuum around them.</p><p>“Quite boring really” Sherlock strains, the back of his throat cracking over the last word.</p><p>Sherlock’s next circulation of oxygen sounds weak and excruciating, almost a whimper trembling from his lips. John swears under his breath, fights the deep ache in his gut that threatens to spill from his eyes.</p><p>“Just hold on, Sherlock”</p><p>Everything is made worse by the fact that he can’t see Sherlock, can’t read his face or pick out the peaks and valleys of his cheekbones, the soft of his upper lip or the crinkle between his brows. This may be the end, their finishing moments, and John doesn’t even get to look at him one last time. And his daughter – Rosie will be an orphan, alone in a world John knows is mostly terrible, he’ll have failed her and Mary and his own promise to keep her safe. Never will he see her honest smile again, or hear her brightening giggles, feel her tiny hand in his own. Every terrible thought crashes over John all at once, paralyzing him for a moment in the claustrophobic shadow.</p><p>Then, delicate fingers find his own. They rest lightly over John’s strong digits, knotted tightly in the shirt pressed against Sherlock’s ribs. For a few seconds he focuses on that touch, the slow circle of Sherlock’s thumb on the back of his hand.</p><p>“I’m sorry” Sherlock offers, barely audible across the top of John’s hair. “John, I –“</p><p>They’re closer now, John can feel a brush of cotton against the tip of his nose, Sherlock’s shoulder radiating warmth in the confined space. The head above him must be turned his way, the apology followed by shaking breaths tickling his eyebrows.</p><p>“Don’t” John asks, almost begging as he pushes his forehead into the sharp edge of bone in front of him. “Don’t say that”</p><p>Maybe he’s not entirely sure what <em>that </em>is, or at least what form it will take, but John knows he doesn’t want to hear it. Not in this moment of jeopardy, not with his very existence evaporating into nothingness with every passing second. If he’d ever imagined declarations between them, it was never under the threat of death. So many times they’ve managed to avoid it, laugh it away or brush it off, their goodbyes becoming recycled and infinite.</p><p>“Greg will come,” He promises, voice not even convincing in his own ears. “We don’t do this, Sherlock. You know we don’t”</p><p>John wets his bottom lip and finds his own breathing struggling now, the oxygen getting trapped somewhere in his sternum as he fights the dwindling atmosphere and his own wavering resolve. Sherlock’s thumb has stopped its idle path across the back of his hand, fingers barely there as he huffs what could be a laugh, if it wasn’t painted with sadness.</p><p>“No, we don’t” Sherlock concedes. “But I need to”</p><p>There’s a silent please, a request for one final favour as Sherlock uses the little strength he has left to trace his hand softly along John’s throat, before resting at the dip under his jawline. He applies pressure, and John lifts his chin, desperately seeking the eyes he still cannot see. His hands feel damp on his makeshift bandage, the metallic smell of blood poisoning the small pockets of air around them.</p><p>“John, you –“ Sherlock is cut off by the sharp drag of his own lungs, pure determination forcing the sound from his lips. “There isn’t enough time, to explain”</p><p><em>No</em>, John thinks, his head screaming as he tries to say something. Anything, to the man slowly dying underneath his hands. There’s no witty line or casual flippant response he can manifest, nothing to dilute the finite nature of their situation. Somehow it’s come to this, the most plain of conclusions, no convoluted game or drawn out finale. Just an accidental capture, an adversary not interested in puzzles and clues, but ending them as quickly and cleanly as possible. A full stop that John never expected to be thrust upon them so soon.</p><p>“Please, can you” Sherlock swallows, shuddering slightly as tremors of pain run through him. “Just once”</p><p>Those words are so faint and desperate, disappearing easily between them. John feels them sink into his skin, taint his pores with every single unsaid thing they’ve always known. All the time they have wasted, thinking there were endless moments to be had. Perhaps he could play ignorant to Sherlock’s request, pretend he doesn’t know what he’s asking for. Except, he can’t, because John wants to ask for it, too.</p><p>The darkness makes it difficult, so John uses his nose to map Sherlock’s cheek, shivers a breath across it before he finds his mouth. The flesh there is dry and pliant, yielding as John wets Sherlock’s lips with his own. He’s crying, he realises, hot salt moistening their kiss while fingers slip into the short of his hair. Sherlock opens his mouth further and John takes what he can, tastes the last seven years in the push of Sherlock’s tongue and the breath dying on his lips.</p><p><em>You are everything,</em> John wants to say. But they have no time and the longing reverberating from Sherlock’s mouth is too absorbing, every feeling focusing like tunnel vision onto the soft meeting of skin.</p><p>“Sherlock, I –“</p><p>But Sherlock is still. Unmoving under his touch, fingers relaxing on the curve of John’s neck. The sound from John’s throat is anguish, burns from his gut into the emptiness around him, alone as his very being splits apart. Desolation blooms and breaks even as John’s hands leave Sherlock’s wound to pinch his nose closed, attempting to undo the damage and trip a restart in the unworkable space. He tries and tries, sharing his remaining recycled breaths, intermittently checking the fading pulse beneath his fingertips.</p><p>The foundations of his heart begin to collapse and John wishes the walls around him would, too. He wishes for a redo, some relief from the impossible wrong that has happened so easily. If he had foreseen this when he woke up this morning, John would have taken Sherlock and hidden him away, locked them both in Baker Street and professed that no one else matters; not the crime, or the lives of other people. Just them.</p><p>White noise screams in John ears, and perhaps if it ceased, he would be able to hear the shifting of earth above him. Could find solace in the scraping of metal on wood, as people feet above them dig and dig.</p><p>Might even feel Sherlock’s chest rise, just once in the dark.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Awake</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>'Sherlock doesn’t quite understand why, never really has, but he knows that there are words John simply cannot say to him in public. He accepts this, the pain of doing so more brutal than any knife.'</p><p>Sherlock isn't dead - again - but he remembers. John struggles.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Sooo I wrote this incredibly quickly because it needed to be out of my brain. The happier conclusion of chapter 1, which is essential reading for this chapter to make sense.</p><p>Thank you for the encouraging comments on the previous chapter, they are definitely what spurred me on to get this out so promptly. I hope it's not a disappointment!</p><p>Porn abound, but for good reason ;)</p><p>B x</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p> </p><p>When Sherlock first wakes, he is in the wrong place. A ventilator breathes next to him, pushing oxygen in and out of his lungs with painful precision. The hospital room is so bright he can’t see, but he can feel Mary, smell her perfume as she pleads with him. No, tells him. Demands things of Sherlock that he is not capable of. Time has slipped, repeating the mistakes of his past in a terrifying haze.</p><p><em>You can’t tell him, Sherlock</em> –She commands, arms folded and eyes cold – <em>I won’t lose him, he’s mine</em></p><p>But he cannot lie to John, he cannot hold back this truth, despite the many he has hidden from him all this time. Once again, he must tear John Watson’s life apart, bit by dreadful bit, in order to save everyone he loves. Knowing it’s a hallucination doesn’t make it any less real, and Sherlock reaches out, strains the tubes stuck in his arm, in the hope that his weak fingers may find something solid. A hand, with a pulse and blood and life running through it. Mary’s face, alive, so that he may repair the man she left behind.</p><p>Her apparition starts to fade away, blonde curls becoming transparent. Sherlock struggles in the confines of his broken body and groans, searching for something that simply isn’t there.</p><p><em>You’ll miss me </em>She laughs, finally dissipating into nothingness.</p><p>The centre of his vision begins to crackle and darken, the machine next to him hisses gently and lulls Sherlock back into unconsciousness. The ghost beside him disappears, and he succumbs to sleep.</p><p> </p><p>//</p><p> </p><p>The next time Sherlock’s eyes open, time has righted itself and the room isn’t blinding anymore, just dull and grey with rain battering the windows.</p><p>An unflattering thin gown covers his chest now, the ventilator gone. Tentatively he tests his lungs, breathing deeply until he feels them pinch at the edges. Not as bad as it could be, though his entire right side aches with a half numb heaviness. Sherlock tries to move his hand to lift his gown, inspect the damage, but the effort is too much.</p><p>“You’re still in one piece”</p><p>That voice, lukewarm and familiar, breaks through the persistent buzz in his head. Sherlock rolls his neck to the right and finds John, tired and small in the seat next to his bed.</p><p>“Well, just about” The man continues, putting the coffee cup clutched in his hand onto the side table.</p><p>Sherlock tries to smile, but his face feels strange and tight and then he recollects why – hard knuckles at his jaw, his forehead meeting concrete, sharp hot pain beneath his ribs and lips, lips on his own in the darkness.</p><p>“Greg brought you grapes” John states flatly, as if he doesn’t know what else to say.</p><p>There are indeed grapes, sitting there useless on the side table next to John’s cardboard cup. Cards too, and flowers, the petals browning from age. He’s been here for a week at least, then. The stubble on John’s chin confirms this as he leans forward in his chair, scrubbing both hands over his worn face. The circles under his friend’s eyes betray lack of sleep, the red veins creeping into his whites illustrating days of anguish.</p><p>“Who’s Greg?” Sherlock manages to rough out, crinkling the space between his eyebrows.</p><p>And then, as the look on John’s face pales to instant panic –</p><p>“I’m joking” He confirms quickly. “He’s that old detective that follows us around sometimes”</p><p>Relief floods John’s face and swiftly turns to mild annoyance, despite the smile upturning his mouth. He shakes his head and wets his bottom lip, breathing sharply through his nose as he shoots Sherlock murderous eyes.</p><p>“Not lost your sense of humour then”</p><p>“No, just a few pints of blood and my phone, apparently” Sherlock observes, sweeping the room for his belongings.</p><p>“Yeah, I don’t think you’re getting that one back”</p><p>Unsatisfied, Sherlock’s gaze returns to the face searching his own. John looks worse than perhaps he’s ever seen him, a bruise faded to lurid yellow at his chin, his frame thinner and ashen underneath his maroon chequered shirt. Maybe he should ask John how he is, it’s the normal thing to do, but the answer is so obvious it negates the question. And though he should be flattered by the clear worry the man has expended on him, Sherlock finds himself sad and remorseful and wanting to shut his eyes again.</p><p>Silence grows between them for a few moments. Sherlock can almost hear John’s brain working, sorting through the files in his head to find words that are appropriate yet strong, guarding the things he really wants to say, close to his chest.</p><p>“Did we at least solve the case?” Sherlock offers, attempting to break the quiet.</p><p>“Do you not remember –“ John starts, eyebrows rising towards his forehead again in trepidation.</p><p>“I remember the good bits” Sherlock interrupts quickly, drugged brain unable to filter the okay things he’s allowed to say, from the not so good things he should keep to himself.</p><p>For a few seconds John doesn’t say anything, processing the words that linger awkwardly now. It’s not a lie, though. Sherlock does recall the parts of those excruciating hours that kept his body from shutting down completely. The hard press of John’s fingers and shirt against his ribs, the quickening breaths fluttering against his face that smelled of spearmint chewing gum and dehydration. His own honest and raw request, burning there between them for whole moments before John complied.</p><p>“Scotland Yard caught up to him eventually” John clears his throat, eyes dropping to his own crossed arms.</p><p>The disappointment in Sherlock’s entire body is palpable, once again being pulled back from the cusp of something he’s been falling towards for years. He watches John lean back in his chair again, withdrawing into his stoicism. There are things they can only confess in the suffocation of a coffin, death looming, that seem too much in the artificial light of a hospital room, with nurses and strangers walking around just outside. Sherlock doesn’t quite understand why, never really has, but he knows that there are words John simply cannot say to him in public. He accepts this, the pain of doing so more brutal than any knife.</p><p>“That’s something, then” Sherlock says quietly, wishing he could adjust the bag of morphine hanging just out of reach.</p><p>John looks up suddenly, his mouth about to part and then there’s a loud knock, sharp and unignorable. Whatever was about to spill from John’s tongue gets lost, as Lestrade pushes into the room, peering around the open door unaware of his interruption.</p><p>“How is he?” The detective asks, looking tired but slightly more refreshed than the other men in the room.</p><p>“He’s doing better, Doctor Greyson thinks he should be able to come home in a few days”</p><p>“Brilliant,” Lestrade smiles all the way to his eyes, and Sherlock almost wants to smile back. “He lives to fight another day”</p><p>“<em>He </em>is here” Sherlock reminds them, gesturing widely with his arms, or at least attempting to, and instantly regretting it.</p><p>The two men share a knowing look that only irritates Sherlock further. As ever, the worst thing about being stabbed or shot or maimed in some serious way, is sitting in a hospital bed having other people act as if he’s received brain surgery, not stitches. Sherlock huffs as much as his lungs allow, and itches for the pain relief to kick in.</p><p>“Molly’s outside with someone who wants to see you,” Greg says, still curled around the doorframe like he doesn’t quite want to step inside. “We thought we’d bring her, she was pretty persistent... If that’s okay, John?”</p><p><em>We</em>, Sherlock notes, and stores that little slip up for later. John looks tentative for a moment but then relents, nodding his head with a small smile as Lestrade lets the door open fully. Rosie totters in first, her tiny hand clasped in Molly’s behind her. The fascination on her face is immediately evident, not at all phased by the tubes and beeps surrounding Sherlock as she almost runs to his bedside.</p><p>“Little Watson” He smiles, craning his head down as much as he possibly can to take in her wide eyes and pink cheeks.</p><p>“Am a Doctor” She professes, beaming with pride at her own legible words.</p><p>“Like your Daddy” Sherlock agrees, unable to stop the genuine grin breaking out across his slightly bruised face.</p><p>Small fists open and close in front of his face, asking to be lifted into Sherlock’s embrace. The hospital bed is too high for her short frame, and the pain crackling through Sherlock’s side prevents him from bending any further. John rises from his chair and circles to her side of the bed, picks her up in his arms so she can at least be level with her favourite person.</p><p>“Sherlock needs to be careful at the moment, sweetheart” John explains, brushing the stray blonde hair off her forehead. “But why don’t you give him a magic kiss on the cheek, make him better?”</p><p>“Am a Doctor” She repeats, her tone more serious, face set in determination this time.</p><p>John leans down so his daughter can plant the smallest of kisses on Sherlock’s cheek. Maybe she does possess actual magic, the spark from her lips flooding him with a comforting warmth. He closes his eyes briefly and allows the softness of genuine love do what even morphine cannot, stilling his aching mind and splintering heart.</p><p>The four of them stay for a while longer, Sherlock mostly just listening to the idle chat as Rosie fusses with the edges of his bedsheet. An hour passes by somehow and Sherlock only realises his eyes are closing when John suddenly rises, ushering the other three out of the door with a whisper.</p><p>“I’ll be back tomorrow” John confirms quietly, tucking the sheet Rosie had disturbed back around Sherlock’s waist.</p><p>He’s breathing steadily through his nose, concentrating on staying conscious until John is satisfied with his work. There’s the briefest of pauses, where Sherlock thinks maybe John will claim the space between them again, press his nose just there on the peak of his cheekbone – but he doesn’t. He darts his eyes across Sherlock’s face and presses his lips together tightly instead, repressing another want that he so clearly is leaning towards.</p><p>“See you tomorrow, then” Sherlock manages, and closes his eyes for fear that keeping them open will only damage him more.</p><p>The door clicks gently closed, Sherlock’s mind swiftly following.</p><p> </p><p>//</p><p> </p><p>Sherlock manages to discharge himself two evenings later, much to everyone’s chagrin. The sun is failing and John’s hands are cold when they grip Sherlock’s own, steadying him as they climb into the back of a cab.</p><p>“Mycroft did offer a car, you know” John repeats for the second time, as the taxi hurtles over another speed bump.</p><p>The breath hisses between his teeth at the carelessness of the driver, but Sherlock doesn’t relent. He’s way beyond accepting favours from his brother, their relationship respectful but still strained despite their truce. Ten days away from a case of any kind has been bad enough, Sherlock just wants Baker Street and familiarity and perhaps another painkiller or two. He doesn’t speak again until they arrive at 221B, shucking off John’s offered arm as he takes the stairs slowly.</p><p>Nothing feels worse than being incapable, unable to do the simplest of tasks without assistance. Death, he supposes, should eclipse that, but in his prickly mood, Sherlock isn’t so sure. Everything is made more unbearable by the constant thrum of tension between them, the tight knot in his stomach quickly morphing from regret into a persistent irritation. The last hospital visit had been particularly draining, John pacing the room, adjusting his pillow and checking his pulse every few minutes as if he didn’t trust anyone else to do a good enough job. All the while silent, avoiding the conversation they had nearly broached days before.</p><p>“I’m fine, John” Sherlock says, a little more clipped than he had meant it to be.</p><p>John holds both hands up, retreating from Sherlock as they enter the living room. It’s all as it should be, the mess of the experiment he left still on the kitchen counter, despite everything around it being meticulously clean. The only item out of place is a grey throw, draped carelessly over his chair. Sherlock regards it as his fingers tighten against the black leather, seeking the support he brushed off from John moments ago. Waves of pain still trickle through him persistently, the pitiful amount of drugs they have him on are not nearly enough to achieve a satisfying high. The monochrome weave of cotton stares at him, an accidental clue to John’s recent sleeping habits.</p><p>The other man clears his throat, noticing Sherlock’s grip on the back of his chair.</p><p>“I’m <em>mostly</em> fine” Sherlock corrects, rolling his eyes at John’s condescending brow.</p><p>Something on Sherlock’s face obviously tells John not to push any further, and he busies himself in the kitchen making tea. Tiny needles poke at Sherlock’s skin, the flesh around his healing wound itchy and slightly on fire. There are far superior chemical solutions hidden under the floorboards in his bedroom, ready and waiting to steal away every ounce of ache, both in his body and his head. The problem is Sherlock can’t forgive himself anymore. Finds his own comfort is no longer a reasonable excuse to deceive John, no matter how nauseating being around him currently is.</p><p>So, instead he takes his frustration out on the back of his armchair, digging his nails in until they leave tiny half moons in the leather. When John comes back in with the tea, he pretends to be looking at his new phone, the weight of it still not quite right in his hand. The loss of everything he had stored on there is very real, years worth of messages and the few precious photos he had taken. Trivial and sentimental, the old version of himself would say.</p><p>“I think I’ll turn in for the night, actually” Sherlock decides, pushing the iPhone back into his pocket and straightening slightly.</p><p>“Oh, okay”</p><p>John looks mildly disappointed, still clutching both cups in front of him like he isn’t sure if he wants to let Sherlock go. Sherlock doesn’t give him a choice though, ignoring the protests of his body as he heads towards the bedroom. When he reaches out to take his tea from John in passing, the other man pulls it back, some sloshing over the rim.</p><p>“I’ll bring it” He says, looking down blankly at the wet stain on the rug.</p><p>No part of Sherlock attempts to stop the exasperated sigh parting his lips, as he gingerly pushes his bedroom door open. The solace of sleep has never seemed more appealing, yet Sherlock doubts it will come that easily tonight. John places both cups on the beside table and stares at them, apparently lost in some internal battle that Sherlock doesn’t have the energy to unpick right now. With great effort he sits on the edge of the bed, toes off his shoes.</p><p>“Are you going to undress me, too?”</p><p>The words bite at John’s face before Sherlock can stop them, his need for pain relief now outweighing any sense of social politeness. Immediately he regrets his choice of words though, as the man in front of him finally meets his eyes, and Sherlock flinches at the naked hurt there.</p><p>“I’m sorry, John, I –“ Sherlock pauses, unsure as to what he actually is.</p><p>Annoyed to be alive yet still mentally trapped six feet underground? Frustrated, that he can’t instantly bury himself in work as some distraction from everything they’re now pretending didn’t happen, any resolution he thought may finally be in reach now dying slowly in the claustrophobic confines of a wooden box.</p><p>“I nearly lost you,” John begins, his words like tiny brambles that have been scratching at the back of his throat for years. “Again”</p><p>“You saved my life” Sherlock counters promptly.</p><p>The noise from John’s mouth is too ugly to be considered laughter, the self-loathing plain as he draws air into his lungs.</p><p>“No, no I didn’t” The man denies, clenching and unclenching his fists one finger at a time, back hunched with regret. “I watched you die, for the third time”</p><p>Sherlock wants to protest, mostly because he didn’t technically die the first time, but he thinks twice about it as remorse blemishes John’s face. There’s wet gathering in the corners of the eyes avoiding his, small pools that Sherlock wants to taste on his tongue. The soldier sniffs and lifts his chin, steadying his gaze on Sherlock’s, looking so far into him that it’s difficult to keep his own fixed.</p><p>“You saved me, in here” Sherlock reaches two fingers to press at his own forehead, the movement straining muscles that should not hurt so much. “For the third time”</p><p>Something breaks across the shadows of John’s cheeks and mouth, his bottom lip trembling slightly as he wets it out of habit. They’re caught in this endless loop of nearly, almost reaching the pivotal point of no return before their self-sabotage tricks them into retreat. But the lure of it is so beguiling now that Sherlock no longer wants to back away, cannot imagine another hour, never mind seven more years, of this. Yet it’s John, who needs to take the chance. It’s John now, who must step to the edge of the roof and hope Sherlock is there down below. It can’t be any other way, because Sherlock isn’t strong enough to suffer the fall, anymore.</p><p>The fire in his veins intensifies as John closes his eyes briefly and turns away. Sherlock exhales as his body fragments further, shards of it scratching at his corneas and shaking his hands. Perhaps he has underestimated everything he thought he knew about John, that he is wanted by a man who could reasonably have anyone he desires. Too much history there, lingering blame and sugar-coated distaste. Darkness can hide many things, maybe he was only good enough in the light of no other choice.</p><p>“When you said you remembered the good bits –“ John asks the door quietly, his back to Sherlock, fingers paused on the handle.</p><p>“I wasn’t referring to getting stabbed and being buried alive” Sherlock responds honestly.</p><p>He wills John to turn around, and at last he gets something he wants. John’s hands drop awkward and vacant to his sides, gaze dragging from the floor to Sherlock’s perched torso.</p><p>“I want to stay,” It comes out as a single breath, weak from John’s lips. “Can I stay, please”</p><p>Sherlock isn't entirely sure if that question is aimed his way or to John himself. With every ounce of strength Sherlock asks his body to move, but he can only get so far as an outstretched arm, reaching for John in the low light. When their hands meet, John immediately wraps the other around the back of Sherlock’s neck, mouth open and wanting so quickly he barely has chance to inhale. This time those lips are sure and strong against Sherlock’s own, not diminished with the threat of death, but alight with the promise of more. Instant pain shoots up the length of his neck as he strains towards John’s touch, trying to get as much of him as possible in case it doesn’t last. The hurt is only eclipsed by his own desire, pooling hot and needy in his stomach.</p><p>The distressed gasp from the back of Sherlock’s throat tumbles into John’s mouth unwillingly, vibrating off the backs of his teeth as they kiss. He tries to hold onto him, intwines their fingers tightly in an effort to show John that he is fine, he doesn’t need to stop, he doesn’t care about the bolts of electricity snapping at his tendons. The other man draws back momentarily, breathing heavy against Sherlock’s cheek.</p><p>“Wait, you’re still recovering,” John says, thumb tracing lines at Sherlock’s chin. “I don’t want to hurt you”</p><p>Sherlock lets his eyes flutter closed as the path John is drawing along his jaw reaches his neck, thumb dancing over his pulse point and to his open shirt collar.</p><p>“So be gentle then, Doctor”</p><p>John needs no further permission, his pupils going dark as he lets go of Sherlock’s hand and slips it to his shoulders instead, carefully easing him backwards onto the mattress. For once Sherlock is thankful of John’s experience, allows himself to be moved as one thigh straddles his hip and the other presses between his own. The shiver that courses down his spine is almost unsettling in its ferocity, Sherlock cannot silence the quivering breath that parts his lips.</p><p>It’s clear now that John does in fact want him, his hands insistent as they work on Sherlock’s shirt buttons with surprising ease. He can’t breathe, and though it may be an after effect of his injury, Sherlock’s sure it has something to do with John’s teeth at his collarbone too, marring and then soothing the skin there with his lips. With every bit of energy he can muster, Sherlock brings his right hand up to John’s hair, the muscles in his arm screaming as he threads his fingers through it, tugging slightly to bring the man’s tongue back into his mouth.</p><p>John curses in between kisses, doing his best to keep every part of his torso off Sherlock’s chest, appearing as if doing so is the most difficult task he’s ever faced. And Sherlock knows the feeling, wants John’s lips on every part of him, scars included. The fresh desecration below his ribs does not agree though, protesting with every small movement. John finally finishes work on his shirt buttons, gently parting the cotton with the softest of touches.</p><p>“Are you okay?” He asks Sherlock, cheeks flushed and eyes so wanton that Sherlock doesn’t believe he could stop, even if asked.</p><p>Sherlock nods even though he definitely isn’t okay, knowing he’d be in even greater distress if John were to move away. God if he could just have a few of the definitely illegal pills secreted below them, the pain could be ignored and the resulting damage could wait until afterwards. He can’t though, so Sherlock focuses on the whispers of kisses John is placing on his chest, avoiding the purpling skin spanning his right side, lips barely there but enough to make him arch up involuntarily for more.</p><p>“You need to keep still, Sherlock” John instructs him, carefully placing one firm hand on Sherlock’s hip.</p><p>Now Sherlock curses, between exhales as the zipper on his trousers is opened. John asks silently with hooded eyes for permission. Again, Sherlock nods his consent, the cool air of the bedroom on his naked skin momentarily dampening the low hum of pain. The ease with which John is moving, undressing him and pleasing him so effortlessly, as if he’s done this in his head a thousand times, makes Sherlock’s body yearn for it even more. Without any hesitation at all, John wraps a hand around him, biting his lip to stifle a moan as he works his hand up and down Sherlock’s length once.</p><p>“John” Sherlock can’t help himself now, sounds embarrassingly hungry in John’s sure grip. “Don’t stop”</p><p>The sensation of a palm that isn’t his own is new and <em>god</em>, why did he wait so fucking long. If he had enough time or drive to do so, he could probably map every callus of John’s hand on him, the rough of it beginning a slow torturous rhythm. Sherlock watches the pure gratification on John’s face, the way his eyes are captivated by the sight of Sherlock’s cock in his hand. He wants so very much to move, just be able to keen his hips up into John’s fingers, greedily speed up the pace of them. John shifts back up Sherlock’s body again, pushes his tongue in his mouth and moans into him.</p><p>Without really considering the consequences, Sherlock reaches down, stretches that little bit too far towards John’s hips. The shock of pain in his abdomen forces his eyes open and an angry sound from the back of his throat, hitting his head back against the pillow in utter frustration. John screws his eyes shut against the noise, stilling his hand for a moment as he opens them and looks down at Sherlock with remorse.</p><p>“Sherlock, you can’t –“</p><p>Desperately he tries again with his left, ignoring John’s protests. He manages a couple more inches of success but still nowhere near his desired destination. John grabs his wrist this time, pinning it forcibly to the mattress.</p><p>“No” He says firmly, waiting until Sherlock stops struggling against his grip.</p><p>“This is for you” Are the words whispered in the shell of Sherlock’s ear, hot and breathy and bringing moans from his own lips.</p><p>Then John’s fingers are back circling his cock, thumb teasing the head and all thoughts of hurting himself again disappear from Sherlock’s mind. He concentrates everything on the feeling building in the deepest parts of his body, gradually letting go of every bit of tension his muscles have been storing. John kisses Sherlock’s chin and the space below his ear, buries his face into the curls of his hair and works his hand with finesse.</p><p>Sherlock hears his own breathing speed up as if it doesn’t belong to him, the needy noises coming from his mouth foreign. He catches John’s eyes as they seek out his own, and that’s enough, the peak breaks over him in a sudden rush of euphoria.  </p><p>John has the foresight to angle the cock in his hand against his own still clothed chest, as Sherlock comes undone, staining the cotton there with his eyes burning into the ceiling and his mouth parted. Sherlock takes in each throe of pain that bursts alongside his pleasure, drowning in the onslaught of feeling. He dances in it for a few moments, resting his chin on the head nestled carefully into the plane of his neck, John’s torso still hovering centimetres above Sherlock’s battered chest.</p><p>“John,” He breathes into greyed hair, wordlessly trying to communicate that John should move, the tension in his arms and shoulder must be unbearable by now.</p><p>“Not yet” John says to the curve of skin his forehead is pressed against.</p><p>He’s still hard in his trousers, Sherlock can feel him against his bare leg. Again he shifts as if to move towards him but John shakes his head against Sherlock’s neck, breathing rhythmically in some effort to will away what he possibly can’t. Even if he could position himself correctly, or John shifted upwards, Sherlock knows in the back of his head that he doesn’t have the stamina required to make it last long enough. The shake in his arm now is too much, any effect the last trickles of morphine were having have long faded, and his left hand is concentrating on digging nails into his own palm, focusing the sharpness into a manageable location.</p><p>“Look at me,” Sherlock asks, patient during the seconds it takes John to carefully remove his head from its resting place. “Touch yourself”</p><p>The suggestion pinches John’s eyebrows for a moment, a refusal sitting on the brink of his lips. He moves to shake his head so Sherlock asks again, his suggestion not entirely selfless.</p><p>“I want to watch you” He confesses, focuses his gaze on John’s blown pupils for as long as he can with the hurt prickling his eyelids. “Touch yourself, for me”</p><p>“Jesus fucking Christ,” John responds, immediately reaching for the button on his jeans and shoving his hand into his boxers.</p><p>Sherlock manages to smirk even as he begins to feel light-headed, does as he promised and watches John pleasure himself with practised ease. The way the man bites his lip almost sparks want again in Sherlock’s belly, but he fights it away, the need to recuperate more than obvious now. It doesn’t take long before John is nearing the edge, the arm he’s been using to hold himself up all this time starts to shake a little at the elbow.</p><p>Somehow John manages to bend down one last time and kiss him, arching his body over Sherlock as he comes, unintelligible curses groaning between their mouths. This time John rolls onto his back next to Sherlock straight away, finally letting his overworked muscles relax. Minutes of satisfied silence settle over them, the blanket of relief like coming home after the longest time away.</p><p>In that quiet space of time, Sherlock lets the agony overtake his body and attempts to ride it out. More than anything, he does not want to move, or have John move away from him. Nothing can break this moment in case it is forever undone, not even his own crippling hurt as it chases through his veins.</p><p>“You need more pain relief” John comments, slipping off the bed and out of the door before Sherlock has chance to protest.</p><p>John is gone for all of three minutes, yet in that short expanse, Sherlock conjures lists of reasons why he won’t come back. His fear that in John’s journey to the kitchen, he will find some rationale in the depths of his head to denounce whatever it is they just became, is real. It’s happened before, in one way or another, many times. Gingerly he pushes himself up a little against the pillow, enough so he can at least try for some dignity in his nakedness when John returns. <em>We’re not a couple</em>, Sherlock relives, as he closes his eyes and waits for the inevitable.</p><p>“Here, take these”</p><p>Never has Sherlock been so happy to be proven wrong, as John climbs back onto the bed beside him, offering out his hand. Wordlessly he takes the pills, swallowing them with the glass of water handed to him. As the chemicals break down in his blood, Sherlock watches John take off his own shirt and trousers, dropping them both carelessly over the edge of the bed without a second thought.</p><p>“I’m not losing you again” John says plainly, swallowing as he meets Sherlock’s eyes.</p><p>Sherlock cannot reply, for fear of opening his mouth and having only his full heart flood out. Instead, he rolls his lips together and looks down, offering the space between his shoulder and chin. John fits easily there, turning onto his side and shifting as close to Sherlock as he can. The pills will take effect soon, so Sherlock ventures his arm to John’s thigh, brushes his knuckles there in search of any contact at all.</p><p><br/>
//</p><p> </p><p>When Sherlock wakes for the fifth time since dying, John is still there, as he always has been. Quiet snores puff against the short hairs at his neck, comforting in their irritation. His body is raging again but it’s definitely not time to get up. Shadows still creep in the room around them, darkening the furniture and Sherlock’s hand, still pressed to John’s thigh. There’s still so much he wants to say to the sleeping man beside him, but he cannot bring himself to wake him. Maybe it’s not important anymore, words long overshadowed by touch, years of breaking down finally enough to start anew.</p><p>Sherlock settles for tracing tiny circles on the space above John’s knee, moving the barest amount to distract himself, until he is able to fall asleep again.</p><p>                                                                                                                </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hands up, I'm no medical expert. I have no idea if Sherlock could survive as long as he did, with receiving his wound before being buried. For the purposes of the story it had to be that way, and we all know his mind palace apparently works miracles, so. Creative license?!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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